CLUTTERBUCKS — EPISODE 11

“Where are we going again?” Harriet asks.
Vera is exiting the QEW.
“To see Max.”
“Oh yes. Max Dobson. I remember. I do.”
They drive past field after field of early grapevines and apple orchards.
“Why are we going to see him?”
Vera thinks for a few moment before answering, “I don’t know.”
“Well that makes three of us.”
They continue down the road appropriately named Orchard Drive.
Max Dobson has recently seen these same fields, these same grapevines and orchards. He is now off the bus and walking west.
He thought his parents would pick him up. Isn’t that what families do?
Max is carrying a backpack. It’s the same one he had six years ago and its contents include his grade 11 advanced calculus textbook. The workbook is gone. He remembers the single pages flying around him in the silence after the accident. He remembers the way they settled to the ground like so many birds.
Most of the land around here – the district is Vineland – is reserved for grapes and wineries, but he sees a few shapes of livestock in the distant rolling hills of Wainfleet. His family – his mother and him – moved from Canmore, Alberta, to join his soon-to-be step-father in Wainfleet, close to Niagara Falls. Shortly after they were married, his step-sister Ann was born. She’d be seven now. She wouldn’t know him of course but would she know of him?
He approaches the school.
No more portables but their stain remains on the ground.
Max goes behind the building for a quick pee and as he walks, he considers leaving the textbook by the back door. It’s heavy and useless. There’s a basketball game in progress, somebody yells over and a ball comes his way. He catches it – it’s warm and dusty – and he throws it back above the knot of young men and into the basket.
The boys look over his way, and stop playing.
Max shrugs, smiles, and turns his back on them peeing into the long grass at the edge of the field.
“Hey,” one of them shouts. “You wanna play?”
“Nah. Gotta go.”
“Okay. Come back sometime. We’re always here.”
Max gets to the four corners and there are traffic lights there now. Not a car in sight. He waits for the green and keeps walking.
He turns at the sign for Fort Erie racetrack, which is just down the way from his house.
Max’s mother rehabilitates racehorses. Six months in the field is all they need.
“Just leave them be for six months and they forget all the trauma,” she’d told him. “They remember their manners, but forget all the shit they had to go through. And then they are okay.”
Maybe his mother would use the same technique on him.
But she hadn’t been there to pick him up.
Max walks for another hour before he sees the roof of the barn. He gets closer, does not see any horses, but fully expects the four Jack Russells – Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Moe – to run out like they always did, but of course dog years are different and they’d be in their seventies by now, and were more likely to amble out to greet him, if they remembered him, or bark at him if not. He wondered which it would be.
His mother had come to the jail, they didn’t call it a jail but she did, one time only. It was called a Secure Juvenile Corrections Facility and the visit had been excruciatingly difficult, his mother so sad and angry, and Max had not minded that she didn’t come the following visitation day. Or the next. The first missed birthday was hard to take, Christmas was also difficult, and when he called on his sister’s and then on his mother’s birthdays the phone went unanswered. But things got easier as time progressed and his expectations lessened. He threw himself into school, studied and learned all he could. He earned a certificate in auto-mechanics and a certificate in upholstery, he liked the idea of rehabilitation as it applied to objects. He participated fully in all programs available to him, he learned over time to live with his tremendous guilt – to balance it in an appropriate and non-destructive manner – he made an effort to work with the energy of his mistake to make himself a better person, and he planned to heal himself one piece of furniture at a time. He didn’t necessarily expect his mother would be there when he got out but it was a sad reality nonetheless when he found himself alone with nothing more than bus fare, donated clothing, and the six year’s ago backpack.
He knows it before he turns into the driveway. He knows it when he goes up the six wooden stairs to the front door. He knows it when he knocks. He knew it when he was first released. But he knocks anyway. A woman comes to the door. She offers him a smile.
“Hello?” she says.
“Hello. Sorry to bother you. I used to live here. My parents. My mom and step-dad and sister. I guess they moved?”
“Oh. Well. Hello. And you are?”
“My name is Max Dobson.”
“Oh yes. The Dobsons. I think they owned this place before the last people. We bought from the Websters. I guess they bought from your parents.”
“So it’s been a while then.”
“We’ve been here going on three years. Don’t know how long the Websters were here. Your parents the ones used to rehab the horses?
“That’s right. My mother.”
“You’re looking for your parents?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“How come? You’re so young, I mean. You run away or somethin’?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t know where they are, sorry. I don’t know if the people next door might know? They’re older. I think they’ve been here for ages. Give them a try. Go on.”
A baby cries from inside. “I gotta go but good luck to you. Like I said, try the people next door. Betty’s her name. And Bob’s the old man. Best of luck. She’s a talker though, Betty is, so watch out!”
“Thank you.”
She’s right. They are Betty and Bob MacDonald, but Max gets the picture and doesn’t bother.
He heads back to town instead.
Harriet and Vera pass the school where Max sits in the back, thinking about what’s next.
They drive until the sign that says Wainfleet, where they turn.
“This is the one,” Vera says, slowing down at a driveway.
“It’s nice here,” Harriet says. “Do we get out?”
But Vera’s already out and hurrying to the front door.
The woman opens the door. Funny. Two strangers in one day.
“I’d like to speak with your son,” Vera says.
“My son is twelve weeks old,” the woman says. “Sure you got the right house?”
Harriet climbs the stairs and stands next to speechless Vera.
“I am Harriet and this is Vera and who are you?”
“Maddie. My name is Maddie Frost.”
Harriet turns to Vera, “what are we here for again?”
“Maybe you’re looking for Max?” Maddie asks.
“That’s it! Max!” Harriet says. “I remember now. I do!”
“A kid named Max came by here not an hour ago looking for his parents. I couldn’t help him but I told him he should go next door. Bob and Betty right next door there have been here forever and I told him they might know where his parent are. Those are their orchards over there and it’s their lilacs you can smell,” she leans over the veranda and points up the road. “Next house. Blue one. Maybe they can tell you more. Seems the poor kid’s parents moved away on him. I don’t know that’s just my guess. But he’s so young.”
Betty and Bob next door did not get a visit from Max.
“You mean he’s out and they didn’t tell him they moved? He was such a sweet kid that Max. I don’t understand how his parents could do such a thing. I mean when they turned around and sold that place, they didn’t even come by to say goodbye. Nothing. We’ve no idea where they went. I mean it was a horrible thing what happened with Max and they must have felt just awful and of course as parents they must have felt responsible in a way I suppose. But moving away on your own kid? My goodness. Poor young fellow. Doesn’t stand much of a chance now, does he? I mean when our Thomas–”
“We have to go try to find him. Thank you.”
“Like I was saying when our Thomas went away to uni–”
“I don’t want to leave without seeing him,” Vera says getting back in the car, Betty still full-on talking to her, “I need to see him. Maybe we should ask around. I just want to see him, that’s all. I just want to see him. Let’s think for a minute. Maybe he’s got friends. He might go see some friends. I don’t know. Where do kids hang out around here? Did you see anywhere you think kids might hang out? A McDonalds or Tim Hortons?”
“Oh look,” Harriet says as they approach a nursery. “Look at those hanging baskets. Let’s get one for Daphne. She trying so hard to make the backyard nice. Let’s get two!”
“Okay,” Vera turns in. “Maybe I can find somebody in there who knows some hangouts.”
But the sisters who run the nursery don’t know. “There’s no kids around here any more and if there are, they don’t hang out like we used to. They all got jobs!”
Max has been sitting on the steps at the back of the school for a while. He counts his money. There’s enough for a bus to Toronto or enough for a bus to Hamilton and he could find a hostel or something and then look for a job. He stands up, sighs, and starts walking back to the bus station.
Vera puts the two big flower baskets in the back seat and drives toward he highway, slowly.
“That’s him!” Harriet suddenly says.
Max is walking in the opposite direction on the opposite side of the street. Vera pulls over and rolls her window down. There is no traffic. No other cars on the road at all.
“So you’re out,” she says.
He stops dead. He knows who she is. His stomach, an empty hole, drops.
Everything Vera had to say to him is gone. It is all gone into the empty hole that used to be her stomach.
They just look at one another for a long time. Harriet leans forward, looks past Vera toward Max, but doesn’t say anything.
Vera is surprised to find that she does not hate him. There is something else there instead, but it is too small to define. She stares at this boy who changed her life.
Max waits for her to speak first.
An orange van drives between them.
“What are you going to do?” Vera asks.
“I don’t know.”
The orange van that passed between them has turned around and now pulls up and stops behind Max.
“What are you going to do?” Max asks Vera.
“I don’t know,” she answers.
In the driver’s seat of the orange van is Maddie Frost.
After Max left she put the baby in his carriage and wandered over to her neighbours. Bob and Betty had not seen Max, but they told her everything. 
Maddie rolls down her window.
“Max? Come stay in your old room,” she says. “Two weeks. Until you figure out what to do.”
Vera looks from Maddie to Max to Harriet and back to Max.
“I hope you’ll be okay,” she says to him.
“I hope you’ll be okay, too,” he says back, and she puts her sunglasses on, puts the car in drive and rolls away.
She does not look in her rear view mirror but if she had, she would have seen Max climb into the passenger’s seat of Maddie Frost’s orange van.

The Warrior Waze grand opening is covered by the local news stations. One of the reporters remembers Michool from the explosion story.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You did it. Seemed like it was just a dream back then. Good for you!”
“Thank you. You should apply! You look like you’d do well.”
“Yes I was going to ask you about that. How do you pick the contestants? I’ve heard it’s very difficult to get in–”
“I go through all the applications. I like a diverse group of people. Makes for a better game. Some of them are athletes and some of them aren’t in the best of shape physically, but are extremely sharp mentally. My oldest contestant in this tournament is 68 and the youngest is 22 and he’s from the middle east if you can believe it. Came here just to play this game.”
“Wonder if I can have a word with him,” the reporter says.
“I can’t even have a word with him. He keeps to himself that’s for sure but I have a feeling he’ll be a good player. Anyway, check back here on Monday morning and you’ll see the winner!”
The announcer turns away from Michool and talks into the camera, “Okay folks, tune in Monday morning when we’ll be here for the announcement of the winner of the first Warrior Waze tournament. To be announced 6:30 am, Monday June 8.”

The Strawberry Festival kicks off with the same kids on the same bicycles riding along the same route, but this time, there’s the promise of strawberry shortcake and the sweet smell in the air is due to the strawberries Daphne ordered from McClusky’s that were delivered only an hour ago, freshly picked, warm and dewy.
There are tables set up all along the street with shortcake, whipped cream, and now Daphne is distributing the strawberries, four pints to a table.
Due to the last-minute nature of the fair, many of the usual vendors were booked elsewhere, but what she doesn’t have in entertainment, she is making up for in deliciousness.
There is a nice crowd already, and in front of Clutterbucks, off-duty policeman Gerry is talking to Grace, Normal, Jane, Greybird and Jet, all of whom have volunteered to keep their eye out for the child.
“If only Kreskin could be here,” Grace says. “He’d be able to pick her out right away.”
“If she’s here,” Gerry says. “I’ll find her. Don’t you worry, Grace. If she’s here, I’ll find her.”
To the rest of them he said, “You all got my number so if you see anything of interest, call me, even of marginal interest. Call me. And every half hour we meet back here in front of the store to check in. Now spread out and let’s get looking.”
They meet back four times. No luck.
Grace’s phone rings.
“Kreskin? Thanks for returning my call. Where– Oh, okay. I don’t know where that is. Two hours? Okay. Okay. Thanks.”
Exactly two hours and four more meet-ups, Kreskin runs between the buildings and practically right into Grace.
“I’m just gonna walk around a little. Over that way.”
“Okay. Call me if anything.”
He calls, “I feel her but I can’t see her. I feel her quite strongly, too, but – I don’t know – I can’t seem to find the feeling if you know what I mean. It’s strange.”
“Where are you?” Grace asks. “I’ll come.”
She texts Gerry and they get to Kreskin at the same time.
“Think I got something,” he says. “Not the child, but someone else. Grace, do you have a sister?”
She follows his eyes over to the table where a girl, younger than Grace, is serving cake to the crowd. She is wearing an apron with the words “Honest To Goodness”.
“Her,” Kreskin says, pointing. “I’m getting the vibes from her.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Is it possible,” Gerry asks, “that you have one you don’t know about?”
Grace wanders to a bench in front of Simpletons and sits down. Gerry sits on one side of her and Kreskin on the other.
“No. My parents gave me up because they were drug addicts. They sold me. I don’t think they survived.”
Gerry asks, “Is that what he told you? Uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there’s a chance it’s a lie?”
“Maybe. There’s a chance I guess. But the drug addict part is true. I was eight. I remember things. And I think he really did buy me from them.”
“Might be worth getting a sample–”
“Look,” Kreskin says. “There she is.”
The child runs up to the young woman and the woman smiles, takes off her apron and uses it to wipe the mixture of sweat and icing sugar from her hands, dabs her forehead with it before she folds it and places it beneath the table, and reaches for the child’s hand. The child points into the crowd and the woman looks to where she has pointed, and nods.
The other woman behind the counter calls the young woman’s name.
“Hill,” she calls. “Give this to Sam.”
Hill takes the plate piled high with cake and whipped cream and strawberries and hands it to the child.
“Come on. Let’s follow them. We gotta get that fork,” Kreskin says.
“And her apron,” Gerry adds. “I’ll get it.”

Monday morning Daphne is at Our Salad Days getting coffee before going to the radio station, wondering how she’s going to handle the brooch heist, when she runs into Michool.
“Hey. I saw you on Breakfast Television this morning. So happy it’s such a success!”
“I know. Me too. Happy and very tired.” Michool says. “Did you see the winner?”
“Sort of. I mean he was wearing a mask.”
“Yeah. He wore it all weekend. Never saw the guy’s face. He didn’t talk or socialize one bit.”
“Well I guess that was his strategy. And it paid off. He’s twenty five grand richer lucky son of a bitch.”
“I don’t know if I should say anything,” Michool says, “but I have a theory.”
“A theory?”
“Yeah. An idea. About who that guy is.”
“Okay let’s hear it,” Daphne laughs. “Superman?”
“No,” Michool says, suddenly serious. “I think he’s Avo.”

Daphne’s had a very full week.
Starting with the afternoon she got home early and there was a note on the chalkboard, in her mother’s handwriting, that informed her that the drunk driver who caused her father’s death, Max Dobson, was getting out of jail that day. This much Daphne knew. Her lawyer had warned her six months ago, six weeks ago, six days ago. It was the next line that came as a surprise: Gone to Niagara with Vera.
And suddenly it all made sense.
Daphne was out in the back yard when she heard Vera’s car drive up and she waited for them to come find her.
“How about a glass of wine, ladies,” she offered. “Then you can sit back and relax a minute before you tell me all about your day.”
“Oh, wait. I forgot!” Harriet said. “Gimme the keys, Vera.”
Vera looked at Daphne and said, “I just had to see him.”
“And you did? You saw him?”
“Yes. He’s 22 now. Same though.”
“I only saw pictures of him. We didn’t go to court like you did. That’s why I didn’t know who you were. Didn’t figure it out until I saw the note.”
“I didn’t figure it out until the first morning I came here. Maybe I should have said something.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
They hear Harriet struggling at the gate. She comes into the yard and plunks two huge flowering planters on the patio beside Daphne.
“For us!” she says.
“Oh. Thanks mom. They’re so nice! Can’t get them like that around here.”
“I know,” Harriet sits and takes her glass of wine. “And if we hadn’t stopped for them, we probably would have missed seeing Max at all. I think he was on his way out of town walking along the road like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Looks like his parents,” Vera says, “up and moved away on him.”
“What?!”
“Yes. Let me tell you. I’ll make a long story short.”
“No. Please. Give me the long version.” Daphne says, topping up her glass.
By the time they finish talking, the sun is on the decline and the bugs are coming out.
“Funny,” Harriet said. “I remember everything.”
“Oh, mom, that reminds me. I found your stories.”
“What? Oh. My stories. Oh. Thank you. I’m awfully tired tonight, but tomorrow I’ll take a look at them – and if I forget – remember for me.”
“Sure, mom. See you in the morning. Good night.”

Next morning Daphne gets in her car but she doesn’t stop at the store. She heads for the QEW instead, and punches WAINFLEET into her phone.